


I Love Ewe

by kenshincha



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Food, M/M, Misunderstandings, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenshincha/pseuds/kenshincha
Summary: When Napoleon gets amnesia, all of the clues make it clear:  he must be dating Illya.





	I Love Ewe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screamingarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy it, screamingarrows! I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> P.S. I'm ashamed of the title, but I'm a sucker for puns.

The doctors said the memory loss would be temporary.

Napoleon certainly hoped so. He could read all the reports and dossiers he wanted; he still didn't understand how he managed to slip the CIA's leash. Legally, anyway.

But here he was, three years gone and in New York City with a new organization and a new team. A team. For two years, he'd been on a team. It wasn't a place Napoleon ever thought he'd find himself. He was used to going alone, being selfish and not needing to care about anyone else. It was difficult to tell how he must have felt about it. If it had only been to leave the CIA, surely he'd have slipped this "U.N.C.L.E." by now.

Waverly had seemed an unassuming and soft man, but the glint in his eyes told Napoleon he wasn't a handler who could be steamrolled. And yet he'd seemed concerned for Napoleon. Truly concerned. Not for losing an asset, but a friend. It was unsettling, which was a feeling Napoleon hoped to hide, but Waverly's smile said he knew.

Gaby was small, but filled the whole room. Unrefined, but graceful. Loud and opinionated. Napoleon had no trouble understanding why he was on a team with her. She didn't let herself get pushed around by her two big partners. He got the impression he hadn't slept with her. She felt more like a sister than a past conquest, or even a future one. The soft look Illya always seemed to give her may be why he hadn't tried.

Illya. He was the strangest of all, calling him Cowboy. Waverly managing to acquire Napoleon from the CIA was incredible enough. Waverly managing to acquire a KGB agent? Unheard of. He was rough, but had a handsome quality. Napoleon was usually one of the tallest in the room, but Illya had him beat. And yet where Gaby was small but felt big, Illya was big but felt small. The Russian reined himself in tightly. He was always still, a solemn frown on his face. Only when Gaby told Napoleon about his two-story fall did Illya seem to fidget, tapping his fingers on his crossed arms. But Napoleon didn't feel threatened. In fact Illya stuck very close, and Napoleon felt at ease with him there.

The reports of the team's past missions spoke volumes of the trust that had been built between the American, the Russian and the German. His comfort around them reflected that. It was unsettling to feel trust, but not have any basis for it. It was giving Napoleon a headache.

"If your head hurts, maybe you should stay in the hospital," Gaby said with a frown. 

Napoleon glanced down at her, lowering the hand that had been massaging his forehead. "All that's going to do is make it worse." 

The elevator arrived, and the three of them climbed on. Napoleon had been approved to leave as long as he had a someone observing him for the next two days. Oddly, Illya seemed to be the choice without any discussion. 

"If you collapse outside, I leave you on the street, Cowboy," Illya rumbled. 

Napoleon smirked. "If my only other option is back in the hospital, I'd rather you leave me there, Peril."

It took a moment for Napoleon to notice the shift in the air. He looked over to find two pairs of eyes shining at him. He blinked at them. 

Gaby grinned. "You called him Peril."

"I did?" He had no idea why. 

Gaby just grinned harder. Even Illya looked pleased. 

Luckily the elevator arrived at the ground floor. Gaby gave him a last strong hug before leaving to go to her own apartment. Illya lead Napoleon to a clean, though unimpressive, car. He opened the passenger door for Napoleon, who raised his eyebrow but didn't comment, before climbing in. 

"I don't suppose we can stop by a food market on the way home?" Napoleon asked.

Illya frowned, but said, "I suppose," before starting up the car and leaving the lot. 

"There won't be food in my apartment. And I'd like to cook."

Illya nodded, like it made sense. Like he knew Napoleon enjoyed cooking to relax. Maybe he did. They'd had enough missions together. Maybe he'd cooked for him and Gaby. 

"Anything you'd like? I suppose if you're tagging along, I'll have to make dinner for you too."

"You feed me whether I like it or not," Illya said with a smirk. After a bit of contemplation, he finally gave an answer: "That lamb you do."

Napoleon whipped his head around and stared at him, wide-eyed. 

Illya glanced between him and the road a few times. "What is it? Is bad choice?" 

"No, no." Napoleon looked forward. There was a strange fluttering in his chest. "Lamb it is, then."

Dear God. He and Illya were... Napoleon had many recipes in his repertoire. Most he liked to make for certain occasions. He often made steak for business, and pasta for comfort. Seafood was for lovers, and chicken was for friends. 

But lamb. He usually only made lamb for himself. When he made it for others... It probably came from his grandparents. Lamb was his grandfather's favorite, and his grandmother would only cook it for him for special occasions. 

There were only two others Napoleon had made lamb for. Once when he was young and naive in the army for a woman who'd enjoyed the uniform more than the man, and once for a Frenchman who had not given his heart, but had opened Napoleon's eyes to all the different pleasures of the world. 

"I've made this for you before?" Napoleon asked, afraid yet giddy for the answer. Maybe it was a fluke. There could be times lamb was the only option.

Illya was clearly wondering whether there was something else wrong with Napoleon's head. "Da," he said slowly. "Many times."

Not a fluke. 

Napoleon felt a little numb as Illya drove to his favorite market. It didn't look much different than he remembered, and he was able to navigate it easily. Illya followed him, dutifully carrying the packages of vegetables and herbs and spices and anything else Napoleon handed to him. He walked with a long-suffering look but no complaints. 

Only when Napoleon found that his favorite butcher had become a canned goods stall did he falter. Illya said nothing, but inconspicuously steered him in the right direction to another meat shop. After selecting two racks of lamb, they headed back to the car. 

Napoleon was pleasantly surprised to find Illya driving into the same basement garage as the apartment he remembered. 

"Not your place?" Napoleon asked, helping grab the food from the trunk. 

"You don't like my kitchen," Illya said with an eye roll. Considering Napoleon could cook with the bare essentials in terms of equipment, Illya's kitchen was probably a sink and a hot plate. 

When they arrived at his apartment, Napoleon was glad to see most of his art still present. There were a few missing pieces, and a few additions (including some Degas sketches that he would love to know how he acquired).

And yet. 

He paused in the living room, feeling wrong-footed, but not knowing why. Perhaps because it felt actually lived in, a casual mess that felt settled. Perhaps because of the odd items he felt no connection to. Some physics textbooks, a radio and an expensive chess set stood out. 

The chess set grabbed his attention the most, a game still in progress. He walked over, touching a finely carved white knight. Napoleon was not a fan of chess. Why would he have bought a set? It was expensive, so he knew he must have bought it.

"Cowboy?"

He turned to find Illya having come from dropping his food off in the kitchen. His eyebrows were drawn together in concern. 

Napoleon shook his head, and looked back down. "Who's winning?" 

Illya smirked. "Me, of course." 

Ah. Illya. 

Napoleon glanced around the room again before heading to the kitchen. 

When Napoleon tied on his apron, he turned just in time to see Illya look away with a blush beginning to stain his cheeks. Napoleon smirked to himself and started on the lamb. 

Illya leaned against the counter and watched Napoleon as he prepared the lamb and bread crumb mixture. He wondered if Illya was testing his memory, watching for any mistakes. He wondered if Illya had watched him make it often enough that he would know the recipe. The idea was... pleasant. 

"If you're going to stand there, you might as well cut and clean the vegetables," Napoleon said. 

He had never seen a man look so glad to be put on KP duty. He guessed this was a routine he inexplicably fallen into. 

Napoleon wondered what he'd gotten up to these past few years. Illya wasn't his usual type. Large, quiet, Russian. Yet he felt drawn to him. He watched Illya as he worked, hypnotized by this hands. He was skilled and meticulous. Napoleon blinked, and looked down at the lamb. Maybe he should trust his own judgment.

The dinner was quiet but comfortable. Illya devoured it with gusto, and Napoleon couldn't help the warm feeling in his chest.

When crumbs were the only thing left on the dishes and Napoleon made a huge dent in a bottle of wine, he had to ask. "How long have we been together?" 

Illya began to collect the plates. "Two years."

"Two years?" Napoleon asked, surprised. "Isn't that when we joined U.N.C.L.E.?" The reports said they'd met each other days before their first joint mission together. Did they know each other before?

Illya stilled, confused. "Da," he said slowly. "We have been with U.N.C.L.E. for two years."

"But how long have we been together?" Napoleon asked again.

Illya stared at him, brows furrowed. "I don't understand."

Napoleon was beginning to get annoyed. "Dating! How long have we been dating?"

Illya dropped the plates with a clatter on the table.

"Easy!" Napoleon snapped, inspecting the dishes for cracks. "That's bone china."

Illya stared at him. "We are not together."

Napoleon frowned at him. "Did we break it off? Were you hoping I would never remember?" 

"No," Illya denied quickly before glaring. "There was no dating. There is nothing to remember. We have never... We were not like that. We are colleagues."

Napoleon was at a loss. It didn't make sense. He had to have feelings for Illya. He'd made him lamb, for god's sake. Was Napoleon that far gone, and yet hadn't made his conquest? Was he that much of a damn pussy?

Napoleon gripped Illya by the collar and yanked him forward, pressing their lips together. Illya made a surprised grunt but didn't move away. If anything, he leaned in. Napoleon couldn't help but grin into the kiss. 

Illya jerked away, but not too far. He swallowed. "You were hit on the head harder than we thought."

Napoleon chuckled. "Unless I hit my head long before this, I don't this so."

"Many times," Illya said. There was a flash of a smile before he slowly leaned away, and Napoleon let him go. "We were never together."

Napoleon hummed. Given Illya's response to the kiss, they were both cowards. 

Illya stood and starting picking up the plates again. "Go sit," he said, nodding to the living room.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow to show Illya this wasn't over, but did as he was told.

______________________________

Napoleon jerked awake, groaning at the pain in his neck. He should really get a more comfortable couch if he was going to falling asleep on it. Someone had removed his shoes.

He carefully turned his head, finding Peril sitting at the chessboard, rolling a piece in his hands. The early morning light gave him a soft glow. He was looking at Napoleon, unsure but open. 

He sighed. "Well, this is embarrassing." 

Peril hesitated. "You remember?" 

"Yeah, Peril. Unfortunately, I do," he said, groaning as he sat up. A blanket he hadn't noticed was put on him fell to his lap. 

Peril was still, like any sudden movements would spook Napoleon.

Napoleon rolled his eyes and stretched his back. "This certainly wasn't how I planned this."

"You planned to ask me on date, Cowboy?" Peril asked, trying a smirk that didn't quite make it.

"Of course," Napoleon said. Well, he'd thought about it, each scenario more ridiculous than the last. Whether he'd actually planned on acting...

Peril didn't look convinced, and Napoleon hid a smirk. It had been annoying at first, but he'd come to appreciate that Peril could sniff out his bullshit.

"Merely waiting for the perfect time," Napoleon continued. It was technically true. He had just gone on the assumption there would never be a perfect time.

Peril shifted. "Why did you think we were together?"

Napoleon was glad he had lost the ability to blush long ago. He looked towards the kitchen. It was probably Napoleon's imagination that he could still smell their dinner. "The lamb."

"Yes, you seemed thrown by the lamb," Peril said with a frown.

"Did you know..." Napoleon stopped. "I've only cooked lamb for a handful of people in my life, Peril. Lamb was special in my family when I was growing up. I've always connected it with love." He rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable in more ways than one. "It's silly, I know."

"There is nothing silly when it comes to families," Peril said solemnly. 

Napoleon gave him a gentle smile. "I suppose not."

"Or love," Peril added.

Napoleon looked at him, surprised.

Peril put on a determined look before standing, and coming over to kiss Napoleon. 

He kissed back, a knot in his chest loosening. He'd been worried he'd forced himself on Peril too much last night. It looked like they both needed a little push.

When they broke apart, Peril thumped down on the seat beside him. He smirked. "I need to learn to cook lamb."

Napoleon grinned back. "I’ll have to remember some old recipes."


End file.
